


You need the darkness if you want to see stars

by Fourteen_thirty_two



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, F/M, Sapphic Angst Fest, Teen Angst, some homophobic language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourteen_thirty_two/pseuds/Fourteen_thirty_two
Summary: "I’ve ruined too many friendships. I didn’t want to ruin ours."A lively twitter conversation about whether Alex was Bernie’s first f/f relationship, whether anything had happened between Bernie and Keeley (there was a helluva lot of tension there, people), and how Bernie got from being sure Marcus was the right choice (if she was ever sure) to not being ashamed of who she is in Prioritise the Heart got me to thinking about her coming out journey (more to herself, than to the people around her).This was supposed to be a 'five times Bernie ruined a friendship and one time she didn’t' type deal, but it didn’t work out that way. I hope you enjoy.





	1. Kate

_We’ll soon see if you’ll be my ruin_

_I may be high, but you got me terrified_

 

That summer is not a good one for Bernie. A misjudged tackle in hockey and she’s on the bench with a broken arm for the rest of the season. She concedes her captaincy to Kate. It makes sense to do so, and she loves seeing the smile on Kate’s face as she calls the team round to discuss tactics. Kate’s her best friend. Been inseparable since they joined the school. Two army kids, united by their otherness

Kate runs up to her, breathless and grinning, “Meera says Ross Grisholm is going to ask you out,” she gasps, dropping down on to the bench next to Bernie. Ross is a year older, has floppy strawberry blonde hair and a crooked smile, pretty much every girl in their year has a bit of a crush on him, Bernie knows it’s considered an honour. She returns Kate’s smile, hopes it’s convincing.

 

* * *

 

“Has he kissed you yet?” Kate asks. They’re in Kate’s bedroom, sprawled across the bed, listening to music.  
“Course,” Bernie blushes.  
“Anything else?” Kate leers.  
This sort of conversation makes Bernie uncomfortable. She feels like there’s a joke and she doesn’t get the punchline but she’s laughing along anyway. And there’s always the worry that someone will ask her to explain why it’s funny, and she will be found out.  
“Like what?” Bernie asks.  
Kate sighs, rolls over to her, reaches out a hand and strokes it across Bernie’s breast, “Like that,” Kate says, nonplussed.  
Bernie nods her head.  
“What else?” Kate asks, it’s purely scientific to her, comparing notes. She hasn’t noticed how Bernie’s breathing has changed, how her cheeks have flushed.  
Kate takes Bernie’s silence for shyness.  
“Have you frenched?” Kate asks.  
“Frenched?” Bernie asks, quietly. Not really trusting herself. She sort of knows what it is, doesn’t know what the right answer is, though. Doesn’t want to get it wrong.  
Kate sits up, regards Bernie for a moment, thinking, then leans over her, “It’s like this,” Kate brushes her lips across Bernie’s, slides her tongue against Bernie’s lips, pulls back, “You have to open your mouth, Bern,” she says, and Bernie does. When Ross has tried this, Bernie has had to fight back the urge to gag. Where he’s rough, clumsy, Kate is tentative, soft. The only point of contact between them is their mouths. Bernie’s right arm is pinned underneath her and her left is rendered useless by the plaster cast. She longs to reach up, pull Kate’s body against hers, just to see how it feels. But she doesn’t dare. Kate sits back on her heels, unceremoniously wipes her hand across her mouth, and looks down at Bernie, just for a second, before she jumps up to flip the record and the moment is gone.

There’s no word for it back then, not for Bernie. There is how she felt when Kate touched her, kissed her, and there are the words – gay, queer, lesbo – hollered at unpopular kids, ones who don’t fit in. For Bernie, they are two circles on a Venn diagram that don’t intersect.

That’s the last summer Kate and Bernie spend together. After that something shifts. Bernie knows it’s her fault. She’s too intense, too jealous of Kate’s other friends. She doesn’t know what it is she wants, but she knows it’s too much. Too much for Kate, too much for anyone.


	2. Lucy

_I was fine with nothing, I was fine in a dream_  
_Did nobody tell you you can’t wake a girl who pretends to sleep_

 

The break room door is ajar when Bernie bursts in. Lucy is sitting in the corner, she starts at Bernie’s sudden interruption, swipes wildly at her eyes.  
Bernie can tell from her breathing that Lucy’s been crying. She wants to say something because being an F1 has been the shock of her life and Lucy has made it infinitely easier, just by being kind. But seeing the usually level-headed registrar upset is disquieting, and Bernie doesn’t know what to say. She tries anyway.  
“Tea?”  
“What?” Lucy’s face is red, her eyes puffy. Bernie’s heart breaks a little, “Oh, Bernie, it’s…yeah, tea would be good, thank you.”  
Bernie makes the tea in silence. She’s hoping the right thing to say will find her. It doesn’t. She sets down a mug of greyish-looking tea in front of Lucy, perches on the arm of the sofa, rests her own mug against her thigh, feels its almost painful heat through the thin fabric of her scrubs.  
There’s a pause. Then Lucy reaches into her bag, hands Bernie an envelope.  
“I found this.”  
Bernie reaches over, takes the envelope. It’s an anniversary card, to Derek, Lucy’s husband, from someone called Karen.

It takes Bernie a minute to put the pieces together.

“He’s…”  
“For two years.” Lucy says, the tears falling freely again.  
“I’m going to kill him,” Bernie says, without hesitation.  
Lucy laughs a little and Bernie’s stomach flips. Not this again, she thinks. She closes her eyes against it, like squeezing out the light will stop the feelings. But it won’t. It never does.

“You’re lucky,” Lucy’s voice breaks through, “Your Marcus wouldn’t pull this crap. That boy’s devoted to you, loyal as a puppy.”  
Bernie smiles because it’s true. Because she loves Marcus. Because they laugh so hard together. Because he’s her best friend.  
“Don’t tell anyone,” Lucy says quickly.  
“About Marcus?”  
“About Derek,” Lucy says, and Bernie promises. Thinks she’d promise anything to make Lucy smile again.

 

* * *

 

It’s a week later when Derek comes onto the ward, looking for his wife. Bernie sees him first, puts herself between him and Lucy. She’s tall, physically strong, she intimidates him. He calls her a dyke and leaves.

She looks around to see if anyone else heard him. There are a few faces directed at her. Are they wondering? It’s nothing she hasn’t called herself, but hearing it out loud she wonders if the word might conjure some understanding in her colleagues, give them the cypher that finally makes sense of Bernie Wolfe. But it’s okay. They’re too wrapped up in their own lives to care. And besides, she has Marcus. Marcus is proof that she can fit in. Be normal.

 

* * *

 

Later that week she drives Lucy home when post-work drinks turn into shots, which turn into drunk crying in the pub toilets and vomiting whilst Bernie holds her hair, rubs circles on her back.

In desperation, an utterly misjudged effort to be helpful, Bernie had offered to let Lucy stay with her. Lucy had declined, much to Bernie’s relief.

Back at Lucy’s flat, Bernie takes the key and lets them both in.  
“I’m back, and I’ve brought Bernie,” Lucy calls into the silence, she turns to Bernie, “I chucked him out, didn’t I? The bastard.”  
“You did,” Bernie confirms.  
“Too bloody right,” Lucy slurs. Bernie guides her to the bathroom, sits her down on the edge of the bath, grabs a flannel and wipes the traces of lipstick from around her mouth, the runs of mascara from her cheeks. Lucy sits quietly and lets her. Bernie squeezes out toothpaste onto a brush and hands it to Lucy, “You’ll feel better,” she promises. Lucy takes the brush, obediently, and puts it in her mouth.  
Leaving her there, Bernie heads to the kitchen to find painkillers and a glass of water, she grabs a plastic bucket from under the sink as an afterthought. Sets it next to Lucy’s bed.  
Lucy wanders in, her hand on the small of Bernie’s back, rests her head on Bernie’s shoulder.  
“Let’s get you to bed,” Bernie suggests.  
“I’d say you have to buy me a drink first, but I think you already did that.”  
Bernie smiles, mostly out of discomfort. Please don’t let her flirt with me, she prays, not because she would ever take advantage of her friend in this drunk state, but because she doesn’t want to entertain, even for a second, the idea that there’s a version of Lucy who would encourage her, welcome her advances. No. That is information that Bernie’s brain does not need. Lucy is straight. Bernie has Marcus. They’re all just friends.

Lucy sits on the edge of her bed and Bernie kneels down and pulls her trainers from her feet. Lucy absentmindedly combs her hand through Bernie’s unruly blonde curls.  
“Your hair is so soft,” she says.  
“Thanks,” Bernie stands. Lucy stands in front of her, crossing her arms in front of herself and removing her t-shirt in one fluid movement. She hands it to Bernie who is standing, stock-still, holding her breath.  
Lucy tries the button on her jeans. She looks up at Bernie with a pout when she can’t get the button through the stiff fabric.  
Bernie isn’t sure what she’s done to deserve this but, stoically, she reaches forward, slides two fingers into Lucy’s waistband (tries to ignore the warmth of her skin, the lace of her bra) and releases the button. Lucy is standing so close, her breath against Bernie’s cheek is warm and minty.  
“Sometimes you look at me funny, Bernie Wolfe,” Lucy says.  
“Do I?” Bernie asks. Of course she does.  
“I know why,” Lucy sounds pleased with herself.  
Excruciating as this is, Bernie is fairly sure that with Lucy’s bodyweight, her alcohol intake, her level of intoxication, she’s not going to remember much, if any, of this tomorrow. And for that Bernie is grateful.  
“Why’s that?” Bernie asks.  
“Because you’re in love with me.” Lucy kicks her jeans off, nearly stumbling, Bernie goes to steady her but it’s all naked skin, she isn’t sure where she should touch. So she doesn’t. Lucy manages to right herself.

Lucy appears to have lost her train of thought. She steps out of her jeans, lets them just sit there on the floor. She reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra, letting it drop to the floor with the jeans. Bernie does everything in her power not to look, but Lucy is just standing there, waiting. Bernie’s eyes meet hers, Lucy smiles.  
“I’ll find you some pyjamas,” Bernie mumbles. But Lucy catches her wrist, takes Bernie’s hand and places the palm against her breast.  
“Wh…what are you doing?” Bernie asks, watching her own hand as Lucy uses it to caress her smooth, round breast.  
“I wanted to know what you felt like.” Lucy says. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Then she seems to have an idea. With her free hand she pushes Bernie’s leather jacket from her shoulder, lifts her vest. Bernie is powerless, just stands and watches as Lucy skims her thumb over the tight bud of Bernie’s nipple. Lucy leans forwards, kisses the soft swell of Bernie’s breast, circles her tongue lightly against the nipple, presses her palm flat against Bernie’s ribcage. Lucy breathes deeply.  
“Do you always smell this good, Bernie?” She asks, looking up.  
“Um…” Bernie can’t answer, can’t think. She looks down at Lucy, hooded eyes, hair falling down around her face. Bernie smooths a hand through Lucy’s hair. Pushes it back, out of her face, as Lucy returns her attention to Bernie’s breast. The flat is so dark, and so quiet. All Bernie can hear is the shuddering of her breaths and the wetness of Lucy’s mouth against her skin.

As the blue light of a passing ambulance momentarily floods the room, Lucy stands and watches the light dance across the wall. Bernie feels the cold air against her damp skin, hastily pulls her vest back down.  
“I should go,” Bernie stutters.  
Lucy looks at her and smiles lazily, like she already can’t remember what she was just doing. Perhaps she can’t. Bernie pulls back Lucy’s duvet, finds a crumpled t-shirt there. She hands it to Lucy but ends up helping her get it over her head. Lucy slides her arms around Bernie’s waist, rests her cheek against Bernie’s chest. And all of a sudden, Lucy seems so vulnerable. Bernie wraps her arms around her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. Feels the warmth of her seeping through the thin cotton of her vest. Bernies lets herself, for just a moment, think what it might be like for this to be her life. Getting home late with a woman she adores, helping her out of her clothes, making love to her.

“Stay, Bernie.” Lucy says. It’s not a question, but Bernie doesn’t trust herself.  
She positions the bucket, the glass of water and the painkillers by Lucy’s bed. Pulls Lucy’s duvet up over her curled form. Bernie presses a last, gentle, kiss to Lucy’s hair. And reaches for her jacket.

“Does Marcus make you feel the way I make you feel?” Lucy asks as Bernie makes her way out of the bedroom.  
“Get some sleep.” Bernie says, and shuts the question out, because that’s not a door she can open right now. Maybe not ever.


	3. Marcus

_Hiding out in trenches I’ve built  
_ _I’m so good at it now, I know how to trick myself_

 

“That boy’s devoted to you, loyal as a puppy,” Lucy says.  
Bernie smiles because it’s true. Because she loves Marcus. Because they laugh so hard together. Because he’s her best friend.

They’ve been best friends for about eighteen months before Bernie realises that everyone assumes they are more. And she lets them because it’s easier. It’s easier than explaining why they aren’t more. It’s easier to talk with her female classmates, with her mother. Bernie’s non-relationship with Marcus opens doors into intimate conversations with women about their own relationships. It gives her the sense of community and belonging she has craved. It makes Bernie’s mother confide in her about her own past, about her hopes for her daughter. They all seem to find this version of her — this version who has Marcus, this Bernie who behaves in ways they can make sense of — more palatable than her previous self. It’s all pretend, and Bernie knows it is, but it makes so many things so much simpler that she’s happy to let herself get carried along with it. She can put them right later, when there’s a reason to.

The problem is, that in letting all of _them_ believe it, she has let Marcus believe it too. He looks at her like she’s precious. Like she is a wondrous and mysterious thing that he longs to understand. Like he can’t believe she exists.

And it is not like she feels nothing for him. Bernie loves Marcus. She loves his mind. His ridiculous sense of humour. Those filthy notes he passed her in class. It’s all fine in theory.

* * *

The night she drops Lucy home, Bernie returns to her flat to find Marcus asleep on her sofa. He wakes as she’s pulling a blanket over him. Grabs her hand and pulls her on top of him.  
“I was just thinking about you,” he says, sleepily.  
As evidence, he takes her hand and pushes it against his jeans, his erection hard against his thigh. Bernie recognises this as a question, they’ve been here many times before and she’s always made her excuses, but tonight is different. Bernie feels guilty about what just nearly happened with Lucy, and she is still so turned on at the memory of Lucy’s mouth against her skin, Lucy pressed up against her, that she thinks she might as well. Why not?  
“Not here,” she says, and leads him to her bedroom.

When Bernie has sex with Marcus it’s the first time she’s had sex with anyone. She doesn’t consider herself a virgin, because virginity is a social construct, and Bernie is not a woman who is giving anything to a man, nor is she losing anything from this arrangement. When Bernie has sex with Marcus it’s the first time she’s had sex with anyone, but she’s a doctor. Her knowledge of anatomy is first rate, and like any good scientist, her experimentation has been extensive. She knows exactly what she needs to get herself off. What she doesn’t factor in is how tense the other person in the room will make her. How difficult it will be to communicate what she wants from him. She knows Marcus probably hasn’t had sex for the two years they’ve been friends because he’s been waiting for her. She wouldn’t have minded if he had, but it’s not who he is. He thinks she’s worth waiting for, thinks she is something special. He is rushed, hasty. He tries to slow down, for her, but she can understand his eagerness. The foreplay is virtually non-existent but Bernie is still slick with arousal from Lucy, her underwear soaked. When Marcus thinks it’s for him Bernie lets him.

When Marcus pushes into her she likes it, the sensation, she’s always enjoyed penetration, and to begin with there’s an added frisson with not being in control of the thrusts. But there’s a point, Bernie’s not really sure when it happens — sometime after the initial excitement wears off — that Bernie realises she’s made a terrible mistake, that she’s agreed to something she shouldn’t have. But by then it’s too late to stop it. It’s happening and she doesn’t want to disappoint him. As he kisses her, forceful and scratchy — Marcus’ version of passion — Bernie thinks of Lucy with her arms wrapped around Bernie’s waist, her breath against Bernie’s neck.

When Bernie has sex with Marcus for the first time she doesn’t think to fake an orgasm — and there’s no way she’s getting there for real. She tells him she liked it but has to watch him stomp around the flat for most of the next day like she had rejected him again. She wishes she had. She sees it for what it is — a bruised ego — and she’s both sorry for causing it, and pissed off that he made no attempt to try to make her come past his clumsy thrusting and some inexpert fumbling. She lets him work his mood out on his own, does nothing to placate him. She knows him well enough to know he’ll come around in his own time but, for convenience, she decides she’ll have to put on a more convincing display next time.

Bernie spends most of the rest of the day thinking about Lucy.


	4. Keeley

_Over and over, you’re cutting at scars_  
_You need the darkness if you want to see stars_

 

The bus crash is one of the most brutal things Bernie has ever seen. Her trauma unit floor is slick with blood. She’s exhausted as she pulls the plastic apron from her body, bunches it, and her gloves, and pushes them into the waste bin.

She sees Keeley sitting on the floor in the corner, pale. Bernie sits down beside her.  
“I’ve never amputated a child’s limb before,” She says.  
“No,” Bernie agrees.  
“I’ve never seen so many…so much…” she trails off.

Keeley’s been staying in Bernie’s guest room for three months now. She’s a promising registrar. Show’s determination, flair. She makes the sorts of intuitive decisions Bernie makes, in the moment. But she drinks too much. Bernie doesn’t want to see her fail so, when she’s kicked out of her flat by her frankly appalling ex-boyfriend, Bernie offers her a room. It’s not a long term solution, but Bernie hopes it’ll help her get things back on track a bit.

 

* * *

 

It’s hours after the end of her shift when Bernie finally gets to pull on her jeans and a sweater, grab her stuff from her locker, and head out to the carpark. There’s a note under her windscreen wiper: I’m popping out with the ED guys, see you at home. Kx

Bernie looks around, squints in the darkness. Keeley’s long gone so Bernie drives home alone.

 

* * *

 

Bernie is curled up on the sofa when she hears the front door click shut. Doesn’t know what time it is. Didn’t want to disturb Marcus when she feels so restless. Misses having that spare room.

“Bern, were you waiting up for me?” Keeley asks.  
“No, no, I just…” Bernie indicates the tumbler of scotch on the coffee table in front of her. Keeley sits down next to her, reaches over, drains Bernie’s glass.  
“Sorry,” she hiccups, “Tough day.”  
“Yeah,” Bernie agrees. Keeley is leaning into her, resting her head on Bernie’s shoulder. Her hair smells of cigarettes and Bernie’s shampoo. Bernie tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “You should go to bed,” she says gently.  
Keeley looks up at her, smiles sleepily, “why are you always so good to me, Bern?” She asks.  
Bernie doesn’t have an answer.  
As Bernie puts an arm around Keeley’s shoulders to help her up, Keeley leans in and presses her lips to Bernie’s. Bernie freezes.

Bernie freezes until she feels Keeley’s tongue sweep against her top lip, and then she feels it wash over her. Desire. She’s held it back for so long it’s a tidal wave.

It’s not until she feels Keeley’s hands on the waistband of her jeans, fumbling with the button fly, that she realises what she’s doing, what she’s about to do. She holds Keeley’s wrists, stilling her hands.

“We can’t do this,” she whispers, and Keeley hears the regret in her voice.  
“I won’t tell anyone,” she promises, she kisses Bernie again and Bernie lets out a moan, she tastes so good, feels so good. Bernie lets Keeley’s wrists go, slips a hand into her hair, feels Keeley’s hand under her sweater, feels the tug and pop as Keeley releases the buttons on her jeans.

Bernie’s desire is a juggernaut. It is building in the pit of her stomach as Keeley slides against her. She knows she has to stop it now because if it goes any further she won’t be able to. Won’t want to. Won’t give a damn about the consequences until...  
“Keeley, we have to stop,” Bernie whispers as Keeley trails kisses down Bernie’s neck.  
Raising her head, Keeley fixes Bernie with an intense gaze, “I don’t want to.” She says, simply. Her hand, underneath Bernie’s sweater, grazes Bernie’s breast. Keeley squeezes.  
“Neither do I,” Bernie gasps, arching her back, pressing her breast further into Keeley’s palm.

From upstairs they hear the scrape of wood against wood and they both instantly recognise it as the sound of Bernie and Marcus’ bedroom door being opened. They are both still, breaths held, waiting.

A moment passes and Bernie carefully removes Keeley’s hand from underneath her sweater. She presses Keeley’s knuckles to her lips. Keeley watches her, intently.  
“Thank you,” Bernie whispers.  
“For what?”  
“For wanting this.”  
Keeley smiles, “I do want this, Bernie. Want you.”  
Bernie gives her a tight smile, “Me too. But I can’t.”  
Keeley nods. “I know.”

Keeley moves out a week later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling this one will be contentious. But if Keeley made a move on both mother and son (irresistibility runs in the family, you know) then that's on her. Bernie and Cam wouldn't have known. And I have no qualms about throwing Keeley under the proverbial bus for the sake of a bit of drama.


	5. Alex

_I don’t know how you did it, but I can’t catch my breath_  
_Wrapped so tightly around my chest, your love is a tourniquet_

 

Bernie knows when she sees the footage of the towers falling that she’s going to have to make good on her deal with the Army. They’ve got her this far. Paid for her education, got her placements with the best frontline surgeons in the world, supported her ambition. And now she knows there will be retribution. And she will be needed to put people back together.

The weight of duty makes a compelling argument when she’s reasoning with Marcus. He can’t argue with the commitments she’s made, he’s always loved how true she is to her word, how reliable.  
“It’s like you made a deal with the fucking devil,” he hisses at her. He’s drunk, frustrated, she’s stop using sex to placate him. Her body, tired of being used to buy silence, won’t respond to him the way he wants it to, the way she needs it to. Not since that night with Keeley.

And it’s that which makes the desert seem like a good option. Keeley moved out a few months ago and Bernie has hardly seen her since. Work has been relentless, the kids demanding, Bernie has put off thinking about what happened. Why it happened.

In the dark, in the middle of the desert, hundreds of miles between her and real life, Bernie lets herself think about it. She lets herself think about what would have happened if they hadn’t stopped when they did.

It sounds trite, but the desert is another world. Dragging the weight of her other life behind her across the sand is too exhausting, Bernie knows she needs to lose some baggage. In the desert she is Rank, Surname, Role. These are the things that are important. Nobody knows her. Nobody cares about what came before. She has a job to do and she’s exceptional at it. Bernie is too much of a pragmatist to think one can leave it all behind, begin again. She could never run far or fast enough to outrun herself, but she knows she must take this time to understand what she wants, needs, without the burden of expectation.

The days are busy, some nights too, and when Bernie gets time to herself she closes her eyes, and thinks about that night, on the sofa, with Keeley. Of the heat of desire she felt in that moment. Sometimes it’s not Keeley, it’s Lucy, or Kate, or that red-headed actress from that show about aliens. But it is always, exclusively, women, and it feels like an awakening. Not because she didn’t know she liked women, she knew, but because she didn’t realise how different it felt to how she liked Marcus. She’d been having sex with Marcus for ten years, relying on her own expert manipulation of her clit and the introduction of just the right mental image at the crucial moment to reach orgasm. Those images, those moments: Kate leaning over her, pushing her tongue into Bernie’s mouth; Lucy’s mouth on her breast, her hot tongue against her nipple; Keeley fingers as she unbuttoned Bernie’s jeans, her dark eyes so full of desire: they were what Bernie craved. Not because she didn’t love Marcus, but because sex with him alway relied on the suspension of herself, her desires. She felt disconnected from him. At 35 every orgasm she’s ever had has been her own responsibility. It’s not that he didn’t try, to begin with he followed her instruction carefully, but unless she forced him to slow down, it was always just checking boxes for him on the way to getting what he wanted.

Bernie isn’t obsessed with sex. If she was she’d have driven herself mad by now. But life in the desert is so visceral: she exists on caffeine and adrenaline, sex and death are so primal, so intertwined, and so close to the surface, that she can’t keep it from her mind as she lies alone on her bed, her sweat-sheened skin cooling in the darkness.

The work is as she expected: it’s bloody, frantic, often horrific. She thinks fast, improvises well, she thrives on the pressure. She excels. But the women are a revelation. They’re in the middle of nowhere, there are no niceties. No being ladylike, no putting up with sexist bullshit from the men. Bernie feels more at home amongst these people than she ever did back in Cheltenham. For the first time in her life she meets out, proud gay women. Women who, in each others’ company, don’t cagily watch their pronouns when mentioning a partner. Women who will discuss sex freely, like it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Bernie is in awe of these women.

The Bernie who returns home after her first tour is a changed Bernie. She knows it, and she knows Marcus sees it. She lets him embrace her like she is her old self, lets him undress her, lets him push himself into her for old times sake. Lets him because part of her needs to test her hypothesis. He hasn’t seen her for months but sex, for him, is about his release. Whilst he sleeps she gets up, showers off the smell of him, and then she makes up the bed in the spare room.

It’s on her third tour that she meets Alex. Alex is ten years younger and the biggest difference is how freely she expresses her sexuality, how sure she is, has always been. It has taken Bernie years to get to where she is and even then she has to remind herself not to revert back to the closeted mess she once was. Alex inhabits her skin with an ease that Bernie envies. Bernie muses about what life would have been like after Kate, after Lucy, if she had had the courage to be herself then. If she’d known then that what she had with Marcus was not enough for her. Alex, is a great friend. Bernie feels for once she can confide in someone, without filtering her thoughts, can be truly honest. She can say things out loud and it’s intoxicating. To her credit, Alex listens and sympathises (how can you, Bernie thinks, you have no idea), and then, one night, he places her beer askew in the loose dirt by their feet, leans over, and she kisses Bernie. And it is like nothing before. It’s messy and so full of undisguised desire, it’s insistent and overwhelming and, for the first time in her life, Bernie is in the same moment as the person she is with. Alex kisses her and there’s no niceness. The rawness of her desire doesn’t scare Bernie, she’s not making deals with herself to get through this, she’s not trying to coax a response from her body, Alex is doing that, she’s not trying to hold back. She’s pulling Alex’s jacket from her shoulders, pushing up her khaki t-shirt, unbuckling her belt.

Sex with Alex is life affirming. It’s rough and almost always hurried, and it’s exciting. And that’s what Bernie is quietly thinking about when her convoy hits the IED.


	6. Marcus (again)

Bernie can still taste the scotch on her lips when she gets home, can feel its fire in her belly. Or that might be something else. Something like the sun that she can’t look directly at, not yet.

Marcus is in his study, she hears the drag of him pushing his chair back as she drops her keys into the ceramic tray on the table. /Who made that?/, she wonders, and then smiles at the faded, oddly saturated image of Cameron, no more than about six, that her mind conjures.

“To what do we owe this honour?” Marcus asks, as usual he thinks his humour masks the barb. He’s wrong.  
“Hmm,” Bernie’s still gazing at the tray, basking in the memory.  
“I’ve hardly seen you since you went back to work, Bern.” He says. He can manage tenderness in his voice, because it’s not for her. The accusation is for her, the tenderness is him — nursing his own self-pity. Bernie knows this game. Has turned a blind eye to it so many times.

The thing about Alex coming back is that, for a hot minute, Bernie saw all this crashing down. She saw her two worlds colliding, and she didn’t know which one she wanted to preserve. It only took the few scant hours she spent with Alex to shine a light on the monstrosity of her lie. Not the lie about Alex, about their affair — she’d deal with that later — but the abhorrent idea that she could come back here after it all. That she could let passion into her life and then come back to a house that groaned with its absence.

There was a time before the army when Bernie accepted this as her life and now she can’t understand how. She can look back at a version of herself that was not so very unhappy, and wonder how she didn’t know. It’s the difference, she thinks, between drinking instant coffee all your life and then finally getting a taste of some really great, freshly ground coffee. If you never had the great coffee maybe you’d be fine with calling the instant stuff coffee, but once you know you can’t unknow. 

Bernie decides she needs a coffee.

She sits in the kitchen, idly stirring the hot, black liquid. Less viscous than the stuff in the desert, not quite as potent. Probably best. A flash of Serena enters her mind, ‘Strong and hot,’ she says, eyes sparking. Bernie ignores it. One thing at a time. 

She watches Marcus move around the kitchen. He seems at once so familiar, and a total stranger. Most of the time he makes her skin crawl. She’d felt so guilty about that since she got back. When each time he tried to instigate sex she made excuses. When she agreed that things should go back to normal she had pictured the house abuzz with children, with them being the focus of their lives. But that isn’t what happens when your children are grown. Most of the time it was just her and Marcus, so she worked late, did some extra shifts, gladly took the last case that rolled in when Mr Griffin had changed out of his scrubs. Now Bernie understands her own reluctance. It took one kiss with Alex, one moment of tenderness. That’s all. Bernie doesn’t want to have sex with Marcus because Marcus has no interest in having sex with Bernie. He desires her body, yes, he always did, but Bernie can’t remember the last time Marcus took the time to ensure she was enjoying sex as much as he was. Her pleasure was, and had always been, her responsibility. And Alex…Alex worshiped her. Touched and stroked and licked, all the while mapping every response she elicited. The thought of Marcus’ amateurish thrusting felt like a violation compared to Alex. Compared to what Alex showed her she was worth, deserved, should demand. 

And once Bernie realises that Marcus has no interest in providing her with pleasure during sex she begins to examine the rest of their life together. The things Marcus must have had to ignore or set aside in order to maintain this misconception that they were happy. It makes Bernie want to cry when she realises how disconnected she has become from her family. From her children. _How did I not see this sooner?_ She asks herself. But the truth is she did. 

Marcus sits down heavily beside her, she can’t stand the smell of him and she hates herself for it. She never wanted to resent him, they were both complicit in this deceit, and she is the one who has betrayed him.

In the end Bernie realises she is going to have to say something. He knows her well enough to know there’s something on her mind, and he’s waiting. In the end Bernie does it for herself. Not for Alex, although she brought things very much into focus. Bernie knows in that moment that she’s not going after Alex. She can’t go back. Not to a life with Marcus, not to what she left in the desert with Alex. She’s begun moving forward and she’s beginning to build momentum.

In the end Bernie just says, “Are you happy with this, Marcus? Because I’m not. And I don’t think I ever can be.”


	7. Serena

As she sits in the dimly lit, almost vacant bar, swirling scotch around in a heavy glass tumbler, Bernie lists the things she has lost:

  * Her commission
  * Her comrades
  * Alex
  * Her home
  * Her family
  * Serena



Bernie drinks to them all. Her failings.

* * *

If she was really friends with Serena she would’ve told her, Bernie reasons. If they were friends, she would have taken one of the many opportunities Serena had given to be open and frank about herself, and she would’ve told her.

She would’ve said: _my marriage ended because the love I felt for my husband was not the love he deserved. Not the love I deserved._

She would’ve said: _I lie. I lied to him when I promised forever. I didn’t even believe it at the time. I was pregnant and he was my best friend and I thought_ ‘we can do this’. _I lied and then I spent as much time as I could away from home so he wouldn’t discover the lie._

She would’ve said: _I had an affair in the desert with a colleague, a subordinate. It was very much not allowed, but I loved her in a way that consumed and terrified me. But not in a way that translated back to civilian life. I couldn’t give her what she wanted...which was me. I couldn’t give her me. All I could give her was this carefully curated version of me — the palatable bits — and that’s not real, she saw right through that. Just like you did. But she was the closest I’ve ever got. I probably should’ve told her that. She deserved that much._

She would’ve said: _I haven’t had a friend since I was fourteen. Since my best friend kissed me and I ruined everything. I don’t know how to have a friend. I’ve spent so long shutting people out I don’t know how to let them in anymore. I know how to get along with the troops, know how to lead, to inspire. I know how to make people like me, how to make them hate me and how not to care. But I haven’t had a friend. I don’t know how to tell you who I am — never learnt that language — I can only show you. I wasn’t ready to show you this. To show you something that would scare you off. I wasn’t ready to lose you when this feels like...possibly...the start of something._

But Bernie didn’t say any of those things. She said ‘Small mercies’, and let Serena go on believing that, beyond being the one who pulled the emergency stop, Bernie was blameless in the disintegration of her marriage. Marcus showed up in her hospital, her operating theatre. He stood next to Serena and thought he had her on side. For a moment Bernie believed it too, believed that if Serena knew the truth — knew Bernie in all her rawness, all her realness — she’d almost certainly turn away. And Bernie didn’t want to imagine the pain and isolation she’d feel if she lost Serena too.

And now, after that humiliating, very public disclosure on Keller, they all know. Serena knows. Serena knows not only that Bernie has cheated on Marcus, but that Bernie had lied to her. And that’s how Bernie finds herself drinking alone in the bar at her hotel. Not Albie’s because she’s the very latest, very juiciest of hospital gossip; not home because she imploded that when she didn’t tell Marcus the truth about Alex; not with Serena — the only person who’s consistently shown her kindness, made time for her, opened up to her — because she’s ruined that too. Bernie asked, hopefully: she was ready to take Serena for a drink, do whatever was necessary to make that look of disappointment, of betrayal, fade from Serena’s face. But Serena turned her down. Or course she did. Why wouldn’t she. She could see Bernie for what she was now: a liar and a coward.

Bernie is drinking alone because that’s what she deserves. She’s not drowning her sorrows, doesn’t feel sorry for herself. She is angry. She’s angry at herself, at the things and the circumstances that made her who she is. Such a fuck up. Who the hell did she think she was anyway, swaggering around that place? Standing shoulder to shoulder with Serena Campbell, meeting her gaze, flirting with her (oh god, the flirting). It was a pipe dream, it was never going to happen. _Run away, Bernie, back to the desert where you can’t hurt people anymore._ But she can’t now, can she? Failed marriage aside, she has too much invested here. She wants to stay. So she allows herself this indulgence: scotch and self deprecation, berating herself into the wee small hours, and then she’s bloody well got to pull herself together and get on with it.

Serena deserves a better friend than her. Deserves a better...whatever it was she wanted them to be beyond that. Serena deserves better than Bernie and it didn’t take her long to realise it, did it? But then Bernie did always like the smart ones.


End file.
